


Thief of Hearts

by TunaFax



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Humor, Illustrated, M/M, TKB and Atem have lots of sex, because they should, casteshipping - Freeform, well a little illustrated and then i gave up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4330782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TunaFax/pseuds/TunaFax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their epic romance started when Thief King Bakura thought masturbating all over the Pharaoh’s bed would be very insulting.  </p><p>(kinda occasionally) illustrated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. King of Spades

_‘Yes pharaoh,’_ he thought and made faces, ‘ _anything for you my pharaoh, oh, this ugly fucking necklace is a gift from Asstown Kingdom, do you like it my pharaoh_?’ Bakura tipped the box onto the polished marble of the royal rooms and changed the tone of his imaginary conversation into something excruciatingly squeaky.

_‘Why yes, my piece of shit priest advisor, I love this hideous necklace, it’s my favorite fucking necklace, I’ll jump off a pyramid if anything were to happen to my dumb necklace.’_

Bakura pocketed the necklace.

In his defense, there wasn’t much he _could_ take from the fucking pharaoh’s fucking private fucking rooms.

When he woke up that morning and decided his goal for the day would be to fuck around with as many guards as he could and see if they would shit bricks when they spotted him this deep in the compound of the royal palace, he really didn’t expect himself to be actually, you know, _successful_.

That being, he didn’t expect to actually break into the - what was it? – oh yes, break into the fucking pharaoh’s fucking private fucking rooms.

But here he was, swiping a really shitty necklace from inside the pharaoh’s jewelry box. And some rings. A small goblet. Jeweled pendants.

It was a matter of what he could carry out. He didn’t think to bring a sack he could tie around his back because he expected the palace security to be better at their fucking jobs, and the added weight of that absolutely gorgeous bejeweled collar that had to weigh at least 15 pounds in precious metal alone would slow him down to a point where he might actually get himself killed. 

Bakura licked his lips, eyed the collar lustfully, and bid it a heartfelt farewell.

Another time, maybe, he could lift the thing off the dead pharaoh’s throat.

Yes. Another time.

He looked to the setting sun and the disk was just barely touching the horizon, but the world was turning red and he knew he had another ten minutes to kill before he had to slip between the rotating watch over in the gardens.

Oh well, that was alright. He still had guards to fuck with.

Was there paint?

There were coals in the fireplace, and when he waved his hand over them, they were cold.

He fished one out, got black soot all over his hand for his troubles, and looked for a plain wall. There was just one such wall directly above the pharaoh’s massive bed.

He considered tagging it ‘Bakura was here,’ or ‘you suck,’ and/or ‘go fuck yourself’ or possibly all three, but he knew how to write none of these words.

So he settled for drawing a massive dick with coal right above where the God-king of world’s most powerful empire would sleep.

Peasant literacy at its finest. 

He could also piss on it. Hell, he could piss all over the rooms – that’ll teach that brown-haired vertically gifted high priest to call him a dog – but no.

He looked to the dick on the wall and onto his dirty hand, looked at the sun that gave him like all of maybe seven minutes tops, shrugged, and put his hand down his pants.

Fuck it.

With his luck, which was really kind to him today, thank you, the pharaoh just may sit down in his jizz before he realized what was up.

So Bakura fished out his cock. It was already half-hard from all of the gold things just lying around the royal rooms, so jerking off above the pharaoh’s bed in seven minutes like he was a pubescent wanker wasn’t all that difficult.

He thought of noble girls with smooth skin, dressed in nothing but glittering jewelry, dancing on his lap and feeding him grapes. He thought of noble boys doing the same, their ringed fingers around his cock, doing all the work for him.

He thought about the precious look on the pharaoh’s face when he saw a dick on his wall and found his shit missing.

Bakura bit his lip and it weren’t pretty noble boys touching him anymore, it was the damned pharaoh himself, with his smooth hand and jeweled bracelets. His dick twitched at the thought of proximity to that man. That _god_. Whatever. The closest he’d ever actually gotten to him was twenty feet, and it was dark, and they were both on horseback, and he still remembered how hard he got because spending a minute twenty feet away from the pharaoh was something they held literal sacrificial pageants for.

And Bakura got twenty feet near the pharaoh and even managed to kill one of his personal body guards.

And now he managed to get into his rooms, inhale their artificial sweetness, and now he knew what the fucking king actually smelled like, and he touched his clothes and stole his jewels and rolled around his furniture.

He came to that sweet image.

_See how you like that, you piece of shit pharaoh._

Seven minutes. His dick was very unhappy with him. He wiped himself off with the clean corner of the bedding and tucked himself back into his pants.

Turned to leave.

Froze where he stood, and the blood in his veins froze with him.

 _Red eyes_.

Red, but cold, like chilling fires of hell.

They really weren’t lying when they said the pharaoh had the eyes of a demon.

Bakura wouldn’t move – couldn’t move, probably, with those hellish eyes on him cursing him to the spot for all of the eternity, and he was too afraid to even try.

Just there, by the door, ten short steps away from where Bakura sat dumbly on the padded mattress, stood _the god._

The thief had never felt smaller. Not when he was three-feet-nothing tall and watching royal guards drag the bodies of old women and infants of his entire village into the pit. Not when he was four-feet-nothing tall and getting sold to a pleasure house.

Being here, in the graceful presence of this piece of shit pharaoh he swore every day to one day _execute_ , was like…

Like something.

He smacked all thoughts out of his head, remembered to breathe, grounded himself.

He could kill him here. Now. Before the guards got to him.

It won’t be quiet.

And Bakura himself would never get out alive.

But the pharaoh. The pharaoh would be dead with him.

The thought brought him peace, though he didn’t start the day prepared to die. Neither did the blasted pharaoh, yet here he was, about to be dead.

Or maybe dead.

What if they could save him? And Bakura would be dead, and everything will be for nothing.

But. He squared his shoulders and stared the man dead in the eyes. He had no choice but to try. All the god-king had to do was open that pretty rosy mouth of his and call for his guards, and a caught thief was a dead thief anyway.

Bakura had no choice, he had to try and kill him while he was still standing there. 

Standing there.

No, not standing there, stunned because he just caught his mortal fucking enemy blowing his load all over his bed.

Leaning back against a table.

Watching him.

Wh-

Pharaoh or not, Bakura knew _that_ look.

And fuck if it didn’t melt his insides with a giddy sense of flattery.

_No, Bakura, no. Fucking focus. Sworn mortal enemy here, about to have you executed for the treason of breathing his air, forget all the rest of the shit you managed to do to fuck up the shit of a literal god, you brave hero you, focus. What do you see?_

The pharaoh, fiery eyes and all, looked like he would allow Bakura to put his filthy mouth on his dick, that’s what he fucking saw.

He had to pause right there and banish all thoughts that his mortal enemy was for all intents and purposes still a god, and horse shit was closer to Bakura in kin than this _man_.

Just fucking-

“You look like you are having thoughts,” the pharaoh said to him in that soft and womanly voice of his. “Very good. You had my council convinced all you are good for is climbing tall buildings and shouting down from them.”

Bakura licked his lips.

“Fuck you.”

A slight arch of thin brows was all the reply he deserved, really, but his gaze traveled up from the brows and over the soft curves of the golden crown and ornate earrings and the tips of his ridiculous hair and Bakura knew what the pharaoh wanted, why the pharaoh was there staring at him, why he didn’t have a guard’s sword skewering his insides, and he knew the pharaoh knew that he knew, so Bakura just sort of…

With his hand.

From where he still sat at the edge of the bed.

He felt his own person being measured.

Then – _holy shit_ – a gentle sway of hips and a rustle of linen, and the pharaoh didn’t walk, he never walked, he sort of glided.

Towards him. Gracefully reached behind his head, there was a faint click of a lock, and he dropped one of his fancy collars on his way over, carelessly, like it wasn’t worth an entire village’s supply of goats.

And still, even after that, he was wearing his weight in jewelry, and Bakura considered if it would be impolite to pop a boner now. He was very glad his dick was still angry at him over the seven minute thing.

“Only because you aren’t suicidal and you know I pay my debts,” the pharaoh told him evenly, and Bakura did feel slightly more suicidal because the one debt this massive douchebag refused pay was a blood debt and-

_And stop it._

_ _

The king put his hand into his.

He actually put his hand into his.

His skin was soft and his gold was cool against the calluses of Bakura’s palm.

He smelled of spices and grapes and fresh water and Bakura had to drill his head with profanities just to stop himself from fucking _swooning_ , like holy shit he was _touching_ a fucking _god_.

He had his hand in his. His fucking dainty little hand.

The pharaoh was a smaller man in person.

Bakura licked his lips, licked them good, leaned over so his head was waist-level with the blasted pharaoh, up-skirted him and put his mouth on his dick.

“Hn,” he heard and felt a hand pat his hair lightly. Will he yank him by the head and fuck his mouth? That would work, too.

He licked at the tip before pushing it through the pucker of his lips. It sat on his tongue for a moment so he could appreciate the weight of it and get used to the taste. It wasn’t bad. The pharaoh had a nice cock, straight, smooth, tipped generously and still soft at the base. It tasted like salt and sweat and perfume baths, and Bakura knew its size or taste won’t gag him.

Good. He traced his lips up the shaft and let the thick tip slide into the back of his mouth. He sucked it, gave it moisture, minded the teeth, and soon it grew harder and thicker. He licked and nipped the underside and it rewarded him with a faint pulse.

Bakura wondered if the few soft sounds somewhere above were telling of anything. Was this alright? Were his chapped lips a bother? Did he want it faster? Rougher?

If he wanted that, he’d have grabbed his hair, wouldn’t he? But there was still just absent patting on the back of his skull so he figured the god-king wasn’t extremely interested in Bakura’s mouth as long as it took care of his cock in some manner, and that was really to be expected.

He dared a hand on the back of a smooth thigh to get him to step closer.

The pharaoh did, and the angle was better, and it was about time anyway. He gave the length a padded slide down his tongue and took the entirety of it in, past the back of his mouth and down his throat.

“Hn…” he heard and hips bucked a little under his hands, and his throat refused as reflex, but no throat-fucking came of it and Bakura patted the back of his thigh again in automatic appreciation.

A soft hand with cool nails and rings slid down one of his shoulders and squeezed at his skin.

Good. _He likes it_.

He made his lips tight and bobbed his head, let the pharaoh’s pretty cock slide all the way down each time. Soon, the soft “hn” became a soft “hnnn” and “ah,” and the taste was subtle at first before it flooded his mouth with godly filth.

Bakura let the cock slide out with a wet smack.

He swallowed about half before he thought to look up, saw the red eyes staring down at him with the same polite disinterest as before, so he spat the rest onto the floor by the pharaoh’s feet and stared back.

“Fuck you,” he said defiantly as he smoothed down the king’s wrap before he thought about how redundant this made his insult. ‘ _And fuck me,’_ he thought _, ‘I’m a fucking idiot.’_

“Hm,” the king finally got his fingers out of Bakura’s hair and watched a few strands catch under his fingernails. He studied them absently, then looked to the wall and admired Bakura’s dick art, looked at dried jizz stains on his bed, breathed deeply as if preening his feathers, then turned his fucking _back_ to Bakura and walked away. Walked over to the dresser and started dropping rings into a jewelry plate, one by one, _tink tink tink._

It was almost rhythmic.

“So can I go?”

The asshat didn’t even have the decency to turn around, he just waved his hand vaguely and dismissively, and that was that.

So Bakura took it as permission to leap the hell off his royal balcony.

When he made it back into the shady traveler’s lodge he’s been staying at, it was way past midnight and he was covered in mud and bruised by too many falls he had to take to avoid the nightshift.

Fuck!

Pays his debts, Bakura’s fucking ass. _‘Your entire miserable life is worth a mediocre blowjob, now go and feel worthy, thief, with my blessed cum all over your fucking cheek that I am too goodly and divine to tell you about!’_

He answered the whiny shriek of the fake-pharaoh with a virgin bride voice of his own, like _‘thank you my pharaoh for the cum and deeming my mouth worthy to store your unimpressive fucking cock, it was an honor and I will tell this story to my fucking grandchildren.’_

Fuck the pharaoh and his unimpressive fucking cock.

 _‘He’s a fucking god,_ ’ he smacked himself on the forehead, _‘what the fuck does he care about the size of his cock!’_

“Ugh!” he groaned and put his face in his dirty hands.

Why didn’t he just kill them both and saved everyone the trouble.

 


	2. Diamonds

This time, he knew how to get there and he knew how to get out.

He also knew the pharaoh was out praying to something or other for some ceremony or something with somebody for some reason and Bakura didn’t care about any of that, he just wanted that fucking _collar_.

It sang to him in his dreams, called his name sweetly and begged him to liberate it from the pharaoh’s unappreciative little hands.

Too bad he would get it melted within five minutes and sell for its weight, but never mind all that. The bejeweled collar was a merciful collar, it would forgive him.

 This time, he brought a sack.

This time, he didn’t even make it past the first gate.

_Gosh darn you, silly pharaoh, foiled again._

So he did what any sensible man in his position would do. He climbed the nearest building and hopped the roofs toward the general direction of the ceremonial procession.

The sequence of events that followed were predictably predictable.

“The ground and I have a complicated relationship,” he explained to the pharaoh who stared down at him, bored, and asked him no questions. He explained from the floor where a guard had him down on his knees with a spear on his throat, and he figured he kind of had this one coming when he thought it a good idea to piss from a rooftop into the crowd of bystanders and congratulate them for getting the rain they were praying for by screaming dick jokes.

Also, this was a festival to honor Isis.

During which Bakura was pretty sure the pharaoh had to bathe like hourly, bless the elderly, kiss babies, think pure thoughts, and, what else, of yes – not execute anyone, such as for example Bakura. Maybe, probably.

“Shall I arrange for him to have an accident,” he heard the voice of the vertically-gifted priest from the back of the ceremonial tent.

“Hm.”

“Isis will forgive if my king has no direct hand in his loss of life.”

“Hm. Ignorance is no excuse. No.”

That _filth_.

Rage filled Bakura’s vision, and for a moment all he saw was a pinhole tunnel with the pharaoh at the end of it, there were weapons in the room, one on his throat, but hell, he could snap the pharaoh’s little neck with a spear through his chest before he bled out, surely.

“Just throw him out of my city.”

The following night when he finally made it back from the desert where the guards had dumped him, he ate his fill, patched his clothes, slept, and left at daybreak.

He brought his him nothing but his rage; and his rage navigated him across the palace grounds better than any fancy necklace ever did.

He waited for the slave to set the king’s breakfast fruit on the little table and leave the rooms. When she left, he dropped onto the stone floors of the royal balcony without a sound, crept through the fancy doors and fished a little blade from his pocket.

Went to where the pharaoh slept.

Usually slept.

Where there was a dick on the wall just days ago hung a decorative golden carpet the likes of which Bakura had never seen, and he knew he would live to regret this moment for the rest of his miserable life. The thing was downright hideous, a pure gluttonous waste of every single golden thread that embroidered it.

The bed that should’ve been there was just a bunch of day couches now.

So the pharaoh moved his sleeping chamber to a room less accessible to wall-climbing thieves.

Except, there was another door just to his left. Too obvious to be true, right?

He tried it. Yes! Isis chose to bless him with three things, then. First, the door was oiled and quiet. Second, unlocked. Third, it did indeed lead to a newly furnished sleeping room.

And in his brand new bed the pharaoh was just stirring awake.

Bakura gripped the handle of his knife. There was a faint ringing in his ears and he took a determined step thinking he was ready for this. He said his prayers and his affairs were in as much order as they would ever be, and the pharaoh would finally be dead, and Bakura would take his own life before the council tortured it out of him after the priests sensed their king’s passing through their various and elaborate magic shit that took his whole village to create, and it all would be over.

And at that exact moment the pharaoh, no, a _god_ groaned softly and climbed from beneath his thin sheets. He slept on his belly, limbs all over the place, and when it was time for him to wake he gathered them under himself and pushed up, a crafty thing on his hands and knees in a pile of soft cushions.

The sheets slid down his body as if he was made from polished marble, and his skin had a soft pearly glow for it, too. Clean and soft and godly. Stray beams of sun kissed him around his curves.

The pharaoh, Bakura discovered then, slept in nothing but a pair of white linen boyshorts and a few bracelets and rings that he probably only wore to bed because they were too much of a bother to remove.

Another very soft groan and Bakura pocketed his knife and any hopes of killing him in anything but a fight.

The pharaoh, meanwhile, still using all of his limbs to support his small body, rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, blinked, squinted, pushed off with his arms and let the gravity roll him onto his knees where he arched his back into a shapely crescent. The sun caught him around smooth collarbones and nipples, but what did he care what he looked like? He stretched. Yawned. Squinted around the room.

Took note of Bakura like he was furniture.

Didn’t even have the decency to look shocked or mildly surprised, no, just bland and bored and unimpressed.

“You again,” he acknowledged a little hoarsely and said nothing else.

So like, did he want his dick sucked again, because Bakura would totally do it.

“Fuck you,” he said lamely. Then stood there awkwardly as the pharaoh slipped a bare leg from underneath his body and over the edge of the bed to let his weight drop him to the floor. It was ridiculously graceful for what it was. Bakura licked his lips, shook his head clear and said, “I’m here for- never mind. I’m just gonna take your shit and… and leave. Yeah.”

Bakura went to the dresser and made a scene out of stuffing a bracelet into his pants.

The pharaoh didn’t seem to care.

“Isis was kind to you during the festival,” he observed evenly, still squinting but otherwise a god gliding his way. “Was the desert as kind?”

The indifferent jab did not go over his head. Yes, the pharaoh could call the guards and kill him where he stood, though it was suicide for the both of them. They were at an impasse, and while it put Bakura squarely between setting the royal chambers on fire and bending over a table and begging the pharaoh to put his dick wherever he liked, the king was very nonchalant about it. Very calm, very flat. It made Bakura consider what he would use as flame accelerant and if he wanted lube or not.

 _Fuck_ he was right there, next to him, selecting his jewelry for the day, threading a delicate finger though a ring.

Didn’t clothes come before trinkets? Or a shower?

But then, after the whole festival thing, Bakura could understand why anyone would want to skip a bath or three.

Their proximity was a bit ridiculous. He could feel the warmth radiating from the pharaoh’s skin, he could feel the hairs of his arm against it, smell it, and the blasted king treated his being there as an inanimate object getting in the way of his activities, like a chair he was too lazy to move out of his way, or, fuck him, too _divine_ to move and too lazy to call servants to do it for him.

Bakura glared down at him. Down and - down.

The hair made up a bit of the difference, but for all his might and glory, the god was a good head shorter, the breadth of his shoulders was nil, and he had smooth hands with elegant fingers and well-polished nails.

And with those fingers, the king picked a jeweled ring, traced its shimmering rim with a soft pad and dipped his pinky into it until precious metal touched knuckle.

Then blinked slowly and tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and glanced at him sideways: a clever royal way of looking down at someone taller than them, figured those fucks would come up with shit to make anyone feel small. And still, insulted, Bakura couldn’t stop looking at the profanity the pharaoh was doing with his fingers and the curve of his shoulders and the length of his lashes and all that gold.

Fucking obscene is what this was.

He picked a ring with a grudge. A random ring - this one was broad and sprinkled with sapphires - and grabbed a small hand. Froze for a moment at its silkiness because hands like these surprised him still. He fully expected godly wrath to rain on his sorry ass for a second, then pushed the giddy feeling the hell out of his mind and slid the ring over the thumb.

It didn’t fit.

He managed on his second try and didn’t earn the pharaoh’s eye. But his work did. The king absently splayed his fingeres and watched the sapphires glitter next to his polished nails.

A dumb need to fucking decorate this dumb king with the dumb stuff on his dumb table hit Bakura in the groin like a welcome wave of warmth and attention.

Fuck, double fuck.

Triple fuck.

He shuffled to hide his need, licked his lips, and grabbed a handful of rings. The pharaoh allowed him his hand, and one by one the rings slid over polished nails, past the bumps of knuckles and up his slender fingers.

Hell, his own beggar hands must feel like rough wood against that.

He managed eight. On one hand. They matched, for the most part, shiny rings and shiny skin, and he figured what the hell ever as he brought them to his face and kissed each trinket.

And that’s all they were, silly fucking trinkets, just as good for decorating a _god_ as dirt under Bakura’s fingernails was good for decorating Bakura.

And still, the thief was only human and though it was all junk in theory, he’s never seen anything more gorgeous than that sparkle and that color and that skin.

And then stupid fucking pharaoh suggested his other hand. Without words and in a very roundabout way, without saying anything, but the hint was there and Bakura groaned, told him to fuck himself, and pulled up a chair anyway.

The pharaoh’s shoulders were toned and curvy and he figured if there ever was a line of decency for this - what ever the fuck this was supposed to be - he pissed on that line until it washed out around the time he leered at the pharaoh instead of giving him his due diligence by murdering him.

So he took a step forward and pressed into the bare back of a king. His hands hovered over the smooth shoulders and the base of the neck where nubby vertebrae protruded from a defined spine. Savored the moment while giving a notice he was about to put his dirty fucking hands all over a god.

Inhaled his sweet morning scent, and _touched_.

It was marble under his hands. Pure marble, with density of powdered sand and warmth of a lazy day by the river.

He had to angle his hips away before he blasphemised something unforgivable.

A shoulder, a dip, collar bone, soft folds of the neck.

Bakura reached over him, trying unsuccessfully to loom, picked an ornate choker with swirly vines and no stones and pressed it to the pharaoh’s throat.

“Is talking fucking beneath you or something,” he groaned into the shell of the holy ear. He had his hands on the pharaoh’s fucking throat. He could strangle him here. He came here to strangle him.

Or was it stab?

He worked the lock and the choker closed around his soft throat seamlessly.

Bakura kissed them both.

On went the other set of rings, bracelets, bangles, leg cuffs.

He knelt for it like a peasant.

And then, the collar. One of those ornate ones.

Here he was, literal scum of the earth, decorating a god-king of an empire who just stood there looking bored and letting him do as he liked, and fuck if he didn’t have a collar in mind.

 _The_ collar.

His fingers trembled and he appreciated its weight before licking his lips and draping it over the smooth shoulders.

Maybe it was too cold, or too heavy, but it finally earned him some long overdue movement.

And words.

“No. Clothes first before that.”

Clothes? Is this what this was about, that he was a fucking dressing servant now?

Frankly, Bakura thought he could sort of deck him out in gold before sucking his dick again and then jerking himself off in the garden because _wow_.

“So? Most of your lands are literally a desert. Do a shirtless day. It’s fucking hot out.”

The silence he got as his reply was an inexplicable _no_ , the very definitive kind only high-borns knew how to do, and whenever Bakura tried it he came off as a confused dumb fool.

“Why,” he groaned anyway, appreciating the way the heavy gold draped itself over the curves of the pharaoh’s chest.

It hung low.

Oh.

Bakura trailed a finger down the jagged edges of diamonds and over the final plate, dipped under it and traveled along the soft skin until his fingers hit a fleshy nub right under a particularly jagged underside.

He stroked the nipple with the back of his knuckle and thought about it. The jagged end must be irritating-

“Hn.”

Fuck, he knew that particular _hn_.

He had to spin him in his arms to see his face, his ever-bored fucking face, but it wasn’t in the pharaoh’s face that he saw lust, it was in his red fucking eyes, hooded, looking at him softly.

The collar clattered to the floor heavily and he had to throw it so it would not hit anyone on the foot.

He went back around him, pressed his own weight into the blasted pharaoh’s back and grabbed himself a perky nipple for each hand.

Another “hn,” rewarded him when he fondled them.

They were rubbery and malleable, perking up to his attention and staying perky for him.

He checked over his shoulder, took note of the bulge the king’s thin underwear that had probably been there for some time, swore twice, and relieved one hand of its duty.

The disappointed noise he got for that twisted his guts into a knot.

“No-no. Here,” he took one jeweled hand into his and guided it to the pharaoh’s chest. Pressed his fingers against it. Got him to pinch and rub.

A tight knot in his belly twisted with need as he watched delicate thin fingers roll the little nipple between soft fingerpads. And the pinches. He watched the pharaoh pinch his own flesh and pull on it until his pretty nipple was red and swollen. That flesh would be sore for hours if he didn’t treat it kinder.

Bakura swallowed sand, his throat was so dry.

“Yeah. Like that, alright?”

 “Alright.”

Wow, okay. They were using words now.  Good, er, “good.”

He traced a quick line down the flat of his stomach and shoved his hand into the pharaoh’s shorts.

His cock felt so delicate against the rough calluses of his hand.

“Fuck, uh, wanna put it in my mouth again?”

“This is fine,” he heard and felt the weight in his arms shift into him.

And it was fine. Bakura took his body weight and touched him the kindest he’d ever touched anyone.

Later, he ganked the collar just because he could.


	3. Ace/Joker

The next time they met, Bakura was hiding behind a sand dune with some friends who weren’t anyone’s friends when they had as many swords in their hands as they did now.

The royal convoy approaching was supposed to be some prince or other, and when Bakura recognized it for what it was he had to talk his friends into staying on the job because Bakura was daring and brave, with justice and vengeance blowing wind into his sails, and the rest of the thieves of the world generally weren’t.

When they charged, Bakura charged for the pharaoh.

This was the best chance he’d ever gotten, the best chance he’d ever get, probably. It felt appropriately fair and just in his gut, a bit glorious, even. If he did manage to kill that damn king, he’ll ride the fuck out of the country before anyone even notices him gone.

Here, on open grounds, could kill him and get away with it.

It’s all he ever wanted.

The convoy was as prepared for them as they were prepared for it, that being not at all.

His world was a black tunnel of stabbing guards and dodging arrows, and when the second guard fell to his sword while Bakura only had his left thigh sliced open, the pharaoh gestured the man away from his flanks and his personal guards scattered to reinforce the rest of the soldiers.

Leaving the pharaoh the fuck exposed.

What.

If he was thinking he could talk Bakura out of it just because he let him fondle his junk, he’ll have a sword through his face before he could open his mouth.

So what the fuck-

The pharaoh was charging him.

Well. Alright then.

He’d seen his slight shoulders and his unimpressive height. He could kill him easily.

...he could kill him fucking easily if the fucker would slow the fuck down, holy shit. A minute in, and  Bakura for full of superficial holes, and the closest he got to unhorsing the king was tearing the fuck out of his stupid purple cape.

It was a minute that lasted a lifetime, but it passed.

When they locked swords again, he dared to sneak a glance away from their hands and bodies and into his face.

What he saw were fiery eyes of a cold man, a calculating man, a focused and determined man, an angry man - angry god - who was sure of his skill and had just as much intent to kill Bakura as Bakura had to put a sword through his heart.

Clank.

Clank.

Slash.

For each of his slashes, the king made three. It was a benefit of training under the best swordmasters of the country. But it was all the pharaoh had, that, and his determined piety - and Bakura had a larger sword, brute strength, and experience of cracking men’s necks like chicken bones.

So it was a reasonable thing to drive his horse into his and throw them both to the sandy floors of the desert.

With his legs on the ground, Bakura himself felt like a god.

The actual god, meanwhile, rolled off his fall and assumed a very defensive stance. He knew his disadvantages, then. It didn’t matter. He was fucking dead.

Slash.

Slash.

Roll.

Very fancy footwork.

The pharaoh was pulling no punches. He went for Bakura’s bleeding thigh, dug his sword in and twisted it under his skin. Good thing it was shallow, and that was the mistake he’s been waiting for.

Bakura dropped his sword and grabbed him by the arm, had his own twisted for the trouble - had a sword an inch from his neck - before the about-to-be-dead king made his best move yet by dropping his own sword, twisting around in Bakura’s grip and elbowing him under the chin.

There was a crack all the way up to his brain, teeth clacking together hard and he saw stars and heard static for a few precious moments the pharaoh used to get out of his grasp and a few steps back.

Fuck.

He almost had his little neck in his hands, fuck.

And to be fair, the pharaoh had almost sliced his throat open.

He growled, gargling blood and shouting profanities at everything around him, spat a molar, and roared.

The fight was so deliciously even.

There was murder in the king’s eyes.

There was murder in his own.

And then, the fucking battle-end horn whistled through the air and Bakura would kill every fucking one of his supposed friends in their fucking sleep if they were retreating.

The sons of whores were fucking retreating.

Like, _excuse me?_

But the raid was done, them having stolen whatever the hell they came here for. A ceremonial statue of some kind. Something ridiculously insignificant in light of what he was busy fucking doing here - but it was too late and his clean get-away from the country was once again a murder-suicide mission.

He spat at the pharaoh. One of his fellow thugs rode past him on a horse with his arm reaching to give him a lift,  because there was honor among thieves despite whatever anyone said, so he grabbed it and high-tailed the fuck out of there.

He was really hoping the pharaoh could make out the perch of his middle finger in his dust.

Then, he spent the next two days pacing his new hideout - a temple for some winter god that was out of service for the season - thinking if it was worth it to sneak into the palace again and pick another fight.

His thigh was swollen and nasty, infected where the flesh was mangled and twisted, and he washed it out, cleaned it, took some poppy seed tea for the pain and went climbing the palace and looking for trouble.

It took him twice as long to get in because his leg wouldn’t support him as it should, but when he dropped onto the annoyingly familiar floors of the royal balcony he found himself at the end of a short sword.

The pharaoh, in only half of his royal regalia had a writing stick in the hand that wasn’t about to kill him.

Maybe the poppy seeds were a fucking terrible idea.

He felt a bit wobbly and ill, if not completely braindead.

He did almost kill this man not even two days ago.

If the pharaoh had some sort of fucking-his-arch-enemy fetish before, he sure as fuck got a taste of reality in that desert, and so now he had no reason to tolerate his hands on him or his being generally alive.

But there he was, calculating Bakura with a cold stare and sheathing his short sword before Bakura could even finish his elaborate thought process.

“Hey, fuck you. Don’t you fucking just turn your back on me, I’m here to fucking kill you. Hey!”

That didn’t even earn him a vague hand gesture, just the pharaoh’s back retreating back into the rooms, all like _‘if you make yourself seem desperate and available enough, you can just bend over that daybed over there and stay like that for a bit. I’ll get to you when I have an opening in my busy schedule.’_

Bakura, fuck his miserable life and everyone in it, followed him inside.

There were scrolls and maps on every flat surface, ink spills and broken quills. Documents, Bakura realized.

“Aw,” he taunted, “paperwork duty for an injured princess?”

There were tiny cuts over his right shoulder, four if the bloodlust didn’t make him miscount. They were tiny scrapes, already scabbed over with red crust.

The pharaoh noticed him looking.

“You look proud. Don’t be. None of them will scar,” he told him evenly.

Still. To mark up a god, even for a day. Bakura licked his lips and felt his mouth stretch into a wide grin anyway.

“Hm,” the pharaoh watched him for a moment, set down his pen, and gravitated to him like a bee to shit before it realized shit wasn’t a flower.

They watched each other's eyes for a moment, carefully.

It occurred to Bakura that where he saw bored indifference in the king’s eyes, the king saw something in his. Maybe rage or bitterness, hell if he fucking knew, but it was something that, dare he say, charmed the pharaoh to let himself be touched by the likes of him.

What the fuck did he see in there?

Whatever it was, he found it. The pharaoh brought one of his lightly toned hands to the crowded bangles on his forearm and began unlocking them. There, under the obscene amount of jewelry, was a nasty purple hand-shaped bruise.

It was the exact size of Bakura’s hand.

His mouth was full of sand and his dick wanted to rub all over it.

He quickly shut that thought the fuck down. This was a fucking _god_ , and besides the violent and vengeful death he deserved, he was a god and Bakura’s needs were irrelevant blasphemies.

He licked his lips anyway.

“So, uh,” he looked around the cluttered room, took note of all the important documents, and asserted their importance based on how hard his dick was. He decided it was all probably firewood. “Are you actually busy or…?”

That got him assessed for his importance. His face, his neck, his shoulders, his hips. The curve of his arms. The scars on his hands, tan lines from where he wore his rings when he had no walls to climb. His scraped to hell leg. His bare and dirty feet.

His dirty everything.

His dirty everything, covered in scars and scabs no dead king’s red overcoat or any amount of stolen jewelry or perfume could ever cover the hell up. Not that he thought to climb into a heavily guarded house of the man he vowed to kill in a neon overcoat he stole from his dead father.

Not that he even thought to wear perfume.

He looked at his dirty hand, and for the first time in his life thought if calluses were something he could maybe file down, or if they were permanent reminders from Gods that peasant hands had no business feeling up nobles.

 Bakura was so mad at himself that when two smaller hands encased his he tore it the fuck out the soft grasp on instinct.

The pharaoh didn’t look amused. But then again, he never did.

“You know,” he said, and felt his chest deflating, “I don’t fucking understand you at all.”

He offered his hand out again, fingers splayed and reaching out tentatively, like, _why would you want this._  

It was accepted.

And studied.

Studied, like the damned pharaoh was looking for whatever it is Bakura was staring at earlier, tracing his scars with delicate fingertips and feeling the roughness of his palm.

“I am not meant to be understood,” he was told after a while.

And then, barely even told, just sort of talked _at_.

“Tch. Regal asshat.”

He noticed that his belt was getting ‘discreetly’ untied by a kingly hand that wasn’t doing courtly love type of thing to his own. Subtle.

“Yes, actually,” he pharaoh told him and his wrap dropped to the floor.

Why.

There was no need for him offending the royal rooms with his naked ass. The wrap was a bloody skirt, meant to be lifted if things came to that.

Er.

“What,” he tried explaining, “underpants make climbing really hard, alright.”

The pharaoh was very pointedly staring at his cock with a blank expression of someone who very much didn’t ask.

“Whatever,” Bakura shrugged, “I’ll, I don’t know, I’ll fucking turn around. You can do me in the ass. Or whatever you want, really. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess, so...”

“No.”

Wow.

There was rejection, and then there was toothache kind of _humiliation_ of standing with your cock out to your very dainty arch nemesis (who by the way took your fucking clothes off) and you just offered to take it up your ass… and got told to fuck off.

It was-

“Stop. You have a sharp mind, use it,” the pharaoh all but snapped at him. “And use your hands, if that is what you climbed my balconies to do.”

“And how the fuck do you want me to figure out what you want if you just fucking stare at me all the time and don’t say shit!” Bakura growled at him. “Ugh!”

“I should think if you get any louder I will not need to summon my guards.”

Bakura spat to his side.

What else was he supposed to do.

He bent low, made a scene of wiggling his ass in the air so that the damned asshole knew how little he was missing, grabbed his wrap from the floor and stomped to the window.

“Stop.”

Right.

“Stop, thief.”

He hoped the stair to the balcony.

“I won’t chase you, thief. But I am asking you to stop.”

Hn.

“…why?” he muttered, begrudged.

Nothing. 

“Got me there,” he snorted, tied his wrap back around his waist and jumped over the railing.


	4. Go Fish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally embarrassed to post these, **if ur coming here from any of my other fics and expecting quality: L O L** this is just smut and fluff
> 
> im sorry (no im not)

There were no more festivals.

No more royal outings into the desert.

The pharaoh holed up in his palace and held court every day for a week.

After Bakura bought them a drink, the commoners who came to court to beg their king for favors all reported he was a God. 

Very helpful.

Meanwhile, one night it was fine, the next the guards began acting like someone seriously ruffled their goats. The shifts around the palace tightened considerably and city patrol began to grab fair-haired men off the streets. They didn’t drag them off to prison or the palace, so Bakura suspected the pharaoh issued no new or unusual orders for his capture; it was just guards freaking out and trying to torture and fuck the Bakura-me-not out of random pretty men who washed their hair often. Whose hair, to be honest, didn’t even _rate_.

But when they grabbed Bakura, he killed them.

Then drew a dick with their blood.

Then left some directions for a rendezvous with the pharaoh for good measure, because he chewed their last meeting in his head a thousand times and realized how fucking stupid he was being on the one thousand and first.

But did the fucker come?

Fuck no.

Instead, he had a guard leave a tiny pot in a place of their meeting.

When Bakura opened it, he laughed so hard he could no longer breathe, his wheezing rendered him breathless until he dissolved into aborted, choked coughs, and he still laughed and clapped his hands.

There, in the jar, was oil.

 _Go fuck yourself,_ Bakura understood very clearly. He laughed all the way to his temple.

...to his temple where, upon his arrival, he found one pharaoh going through his junk.

“I’m guessing that weren’t Friends to the Animals cult outside.”

“They were my – _numerous_ \- guards,” Bakura was told as he fiddled with the small jar in his hands, savoring the feeling of having a fucking pharaoh feel the need to specify  just how many guards were guarding him when he came out to meet Bakura anyway.

And fuck, he rather enjoyed the temple. The mice and the spiders added a character to his temporary home; one that very few places could provide because dirty basements and questionable stains on walls were just poor interior design no matter what the inn owners said.

Still.

The pharaoh, there.

Running his delicate fingers over Bakura’s shit that was within his reach so he wouldn’t have to bend his grace to pick it up.

Standing right over the corner where Bakura piled some rags and blankets together and called it a bed, next to where he left … well, _that_ wasn’t there anymore. The red overcoat of the dead pharaoh that he stole from a tomb of the said pharaoh right before he flung the literal coffin with the dead pharaoh inside it at his son whom he was currently more or less servicing not unlike a whore, the coat – yes, _that silly ol’ thing_ now rested as drapery over the current pharaoh’s arm.

The damned coat was pretty much the most offensive thing in Bakura’s arsenal of offensive things, right next to his foul mouth and a sword with a literal dildo for a handle.

That one was a pretty great campfire story.  

“So like,” Bakura grunted and scratched the back of his head, “not that I’m not fuckin’ flattered, but don’t you have whores?”

His answer was silence and maybe a microexpresison at best, but he didn’t catch it, and frankly the whole incommunicable and mysterious thing was starting to get old.

He conveyed his displeasure with a series of gestures and euphemisms.

“Hn.”

“Well?”

“Hn. Put your hands on me.”

Bakura groaned, marched to him and grabbed him by the forearms, except his anger drained when his fingers locked into warm flesh and he just stood there, unsure what to do with two handfuls of a pharaoh. So he just grunted a “there, are you fucking happy now?” and waited for something, anything.

His anything came as a pair of hands going for his belt, tied securely over his full robe, and damn it, he was wearing layers and hadn’t bathed in a few days and –

“Do you consent?”

“Huh?”

“I surrounded your… dwelling,” Bakura watched the pink lips move and barely noticed fine fingers working the double knot of his belt, “with guards. They are here to guard me, not keep you in.”

He snorted at first, then felt air rush through his nostrils for another snort, and another, more, and he had to throw his head back and laugh it out until his lungs ached and the sadistic giggle in the back of his mind was sated. “You’re asking me for fucking _permission_? To what, accommodate your dick somewhere in my body, are you serious? Fuck, here.”

He freed up a hand and untied his own belt, shrugged out of his robe and had soft hands pressing into the scars littering his chest before it dropped to the floor.

Delicate fingers, so delicate. Tracing jagged lines on his shoulders – reaching to get there, of course, and it inflated Bakura a bit to just tower over him, in his dirty rags with his well-used body, over the short pharaoh with his gold rings and pearly skin.

And then he practically swelled and his cock twitched in his underpants, which he was still wearing because it wasn’t a climbing sort of day, when pointy hair brushed against his face. Tip-toes. He had an actual god brace his hands on him for balance and reach for his scars on his toes. With his _mouth_ , holy hell, with his tongue and his mouth and his teeth.

Licking the thin scar across his chest, tracing it with his plush wet tongue, fuck, fuck.

Fuck.

“Fuck.”

There was a sour smell in the air; it weaved itself between the smell of Bakura’s sweat, the scent of their arousals, the perfume, the grapes, the summer air. It smelled like a welcome friend to Bakura, and it had no business tainting he breath of a king.

“Are you wasted or something?” Bakura asked, and it would actually explain a lot of things. Like a god licking his skin and nestling into his dirty and graceless embrace.

“No.”

There was a story behind this. Bakura figured he can rub his back and coax it out of him.

“Tell me what and I’ll consent.”

His body came cheaply, as it always did.

“It pleased me to throw a goblet.”

One full of wine, apparently.

 _Ha._  

_Ha ha._

“Hell of a time to drop by to visit your friendly neighborhood psychopath.”

“Mn. This was actually one of my better ideas.”

“What were the other ones?”

“Executing my high priests.”

Well then.

“Tell the really tall one I said he’s welcome and I’m expecting a fucking fruit basket.”

He wasn’t expecting a hand in his underwear, wrapping around his cock and giving it a firm jerk, and yessss, _hell fucking yes_.

 The pharaoh teased him with his gentle strokes, entirely too loose and shallow, just around the base and so fucking teasing, but Bakura took the scraps with greed and he would remember this day, he knew, when a beautiful godling touched his body like it was worth anything.

Speaking of, it was about time he showed his gratitude.

There was a waist-height altar to his right, one he’s been using as a table for various trash. But of course it was chest-level to the pharaoh, and Bakura had to dip and lift him onto it, sliding the royal ass onto the stone and simultaneously shoveling junk off it.

A faintly disapproving glare met him when the king settled.

“I’ll make you feel good,” he promised in a low voice, running the pads of his fingers over the silky linen of the pharaoh’s shirt. He noticed blood-red eyes gliding down his chest and to the tent in his underwear, and Bakura had to bite the inside of his cheek bloody to look bland and not at all appreciative of the pharaoh’s consideration. “Don’t bother, it’s fine,” he managed. “You’ll put it in when you’re ready, this isn’t your fuck room where it’s a polite thing to pretend to seduce your whores.”

“Hn.”

“Er. You can put it in if you want to?”

“It is called a harem.”

He should probably shut the fuck up now that his peasant literacy has made its debut, and his hands found the lock behind the gold belt. He unwrapped the pristine linen, peeling it off sweaty skin and undoing it from under jagged parts of jewelry, and he realized it would never come off like this completely, just hang open at the sides, not unless he made the pharaoh a few pounds lighter in gold weight.

But just unwrapping his lithe and pretty body was a fucking experience. The pharaoh was just so fucking smooth, no hint of pores or chest hair, not a single scar or blemish. Solid, smooth, clean. He allowed Bakura the pleasure of taking in the sight of him, grounding himself in the moment that this is the first time in the brief saga of his cock-sucking expeditions to the royal palace that he had been treated to this view.

“Fuck you,” Bakura hissed. “And you don’t need these,” he leaned in low and pressed a few open-mouthed kisses into the king’s navel, slid his tongue into each dip and hooked his hands into the boyshorts. The king had his underwear preferences. No matter. He slid them down his legs with a smooth glide, running his thumbs over thighs and under knees.

They caught around a shoe and the thief couldn’t care less because there, on a stone altar in front of him, he had a king with his robes pooling in open waterfalls of white linen at his sides, a golden belt discarded by his thigh, with his cock half-hard and his legs loose and open.

Unassumingly open, or maybe very purposely, or maybe carelessly because they both knew Bakura would never in a thousand years dare tug them open for himself.

He licked his lips, leaned low and put a careful hand around the pharaoh’s waist. Pushed down. No resistance, except the friction of bones and ribs under the soft skin against his arm. “On your elbows. There you go,” he leaned him all the way and pulled forward, sliding a leg between soft thighs and offering the sold mass of his own thigh against the king’s cock.

Put a hand in the back of his hair, put his mouth on his ear, his neck. He could take off the heavy collar. Hell, he could steal it and keep it right next to the other one he kept as payment.

But the gold glittered so prettily against dark skin, and it wasn’t as massive so it didn’t cover up any perky nipples that were very pleased to see Bakura again when he sucked on one and coaxed a soft noise for the trouble.

It was little and perfect, like everything else about the pharaoh, soft under his tongue and firm once he sucked and toyed with it between his teeth.

His offered leg was getting action, thighs clenching around it and cock lazily grinding against it, and there were still parts he could suck and lick and touch, parts that would get him more than a few grunts and a mewl, and he offered one hand to help the pharaoh hump his thigh.

“You’re so fuckin’ lazy, damn.” He looked into the handsome face, sweaty and scrunched up a bit in his need, but still blankly glaring up at Bakura, short puffs of air leaving his parted lips in a steady rhythm. “Tell me what you want, yeah?”

Bakura looked him over, noted a quiver in his forearms. Shit, his forearms must be killing him, he was flat against literal stone. Bakura took his weight around his waist and got him to collapse onto his back, gently as he could.

But still there was hard rock where the king expected kingly feather mattresses and a dirty thug touching his body when he ought to have a princess.

“I like your body,” it came as a breathless whisper, needy and practically purring, and Bakura realized that maybe his mouth sucking ribs and his fingers playing between skin and hair were doing their fucking job brilliantly. Maybe, just fucking maybe, the damn pharaoh was as passionless in bed as he was in their brief conversations.

That was what registered before the weight of what was said to him had sunk in. The pharaoh liked _what_.

Hands, gentle hands, freed from propping up the flesh and gold reached for Bakura’s shoulders again greedily. One wound itself around the back of his neck and pulled him forward, more of a suggestion than a forceful yank of a customer, and Bakura leaned in where another careful hand welcomed him and traced his muscle and his scars.

He gave the king’s hard cock an encouraging squeeze and the hips grinding into him with a lazy rhythm stopped. They both grunted, but he nibbled up the middle of the neck. The voice box under his lips vibrated with a pleased purr.

But the humping.

Why wasn’t there any humping- oh.

The leg he had trapped between his was escaping. He tried trapping it and massaging it, assuming he gave the pharaoh a leg cramp or something, but the subject of his touches and kisses made a disagreeing noise and pushed himself up so abruptly that Bakura had just barely avoided accidentally touching his face with his own.

Actually, not fuck.

He let them untangle their legs and bent to pick up the jar of lube. When he came up, the king placed his careful hands squarely where he thought they belonged, which was around Bakura’s shoulders, holding onto him.

The king leaned into Bakura’s chest and the thief almost sneezed at the hair ticking his mouth.

He was relaxed, quiet, naked and pressed into Bakura’s side, eyeing the jar with idle contemplation.

“So… er,” Bakura coughed, his cock still tight in his underwear and the pharaoh looking about half-way there already, disappointed with the pause but not too upset, “do you want me tight or…”

There were at least a dozen better ways to ask that.

“I want to see you.”

Huh.

Bakura untied his underpants before he thought any better, glad for the freedom and the few strokes he managed to sneak for himself. The pharaoh reached for his aching cock.

“I said don’t bother. You’re with a whore, fuckin’ act like it,” he muttered into the mess of hair, watching fingers wrap around him anyway. “I’ll turn around, it’s fine. Just-”

“You have a good body,” the pharaoh muttered and looked up, with those possessed red eyes of his, right into Bakura’s soul. Not for the first time in their brief affair, Bakura felt pinned, and there was no Puzzle in sight, just red eyes and the weight of kind words. “Strong. Beautiful.”

Fuck.

It went right into his dick and there was a terrifying moment in which he would disgrace them both and nut all over the hand of fucking Horus himself.

“But-”

“Here, too,” the hand around him tightened and gained pace, squeezing him with delicate fingers, bumpy rings now warm against the thin skin of his cock, and he haphazardly put his own hand to work the pharaoh’s abandoned genitals.

It swelled inside him with warmth and giddiness, that praise, that he was more than hands and mouth and ass, that someone, a _god_ \- a cursed god that had no right to live but a god nonetheless - thought Bakura was worth more than a hole to fuck. 

He fucking moaned then, the first unrestrained sound he permitted himself, throaty and glorious.

He let himself feel, closed off his mind and felt, if just for a moment. The pleasure of it, the delight, the praise. He wasn’t basking, except he was.

And it felt good, so good.

“Aah-hn,” he heard against right into his ear, that high girlish voice, and fuck, fuck it all to hell.

He was still standing, and the pharaoh was very content sitting, and the best position was for him to just bend over, but the pharaoh was a sweet thing and liked gentle things, so Bakura scooped the lube generously and slid his fingers over his own hole and shoved two in, pushing against it and forcing his body to relax.

It earned him an interested sweep of red eyes, all like, _‘what are you doing there with your hands in your ass you filthy animal? Know exactly what to do, right, you slut, you whore,_ and fuck that, Bakura did know what to do and fuck if he was ever going to be ashamed of knowing how to let fat and violent men fuck him bloody so it wouldn’t hurt too much to ride away with their money and their horses and their blood on his hands.

But there was none of that; there was a soft edge to beckoning hands, welcoming him to sit on the stone alter, too.

“Wanna watch?”

He wanted to help, damn his fucking sweetness. Bakura dropped to the stone, ready to turn to his stomach and take it, but the pharaoh wanted him on his back and he wasn’t even sure whose fingers were in him anymore, stretching him gently even though he was more than ready for it.

When the pharaoh finally sunk into him, it tingled and burned good, too good, not because of anyone’s particular skill (but really it was Bakura’s well-honed skill, and the pharaoh’s skill in just laying there for most of the thing), but instead because of the thrill of it all.  

His thrusts were considerate and shallow, there was a hand in his hair and a steady mutter of things into his ear, either hieratic or god-speak or prayer or something he would actually fucking understand if his brain wasn’t mush, something he wished he heard, but he didn’t. There was only the dull burn in his ass, a jolt of pleasure down his spine every time his sweet spot got brushed, and a hand on his cock.

There were moans, he wasn’t sure whose, but the muffled “aa-ah ah” when hot funk flooded him half-way out and then all over his thighs was definitely the fucking _deity_ on top of him coming undone at the seams. Shit.

He was close, too.

But like this, his jizz’ll be all over them both and, and-

“It’s fine,” he heard in his ear, “it’s alright.”

He just managed to get it all over himself, in the end.

They lay on the altar for quite some time after that, Bakura splayed all over it and the pharaoh content to nest under his arm and trace scars on his hands.

“Some offering,” Bakura finally said and rubbed some of someone’s semen between his forefinger and thumb. It was all over him, his stomach, his thighs, his ass, the altar, everywhere.

“Shu would not care much.”

“Oh yeah?” Bakura muttered. “What the fuck do you know?”

“I know.”

“…fine.”


	5. Jack of Hearts

Bakura had lost count.

He didn’t actually lose count. He remembered every sweet second of each of their four brief encounters.

But when the pharaoh made an idle note of it, Bakura lazed around the royal bed chambers and said “dunno, did I fuck you in the pleasure house last night?” and that was that.

“Have you eaten?”

“What?”

 “I imagine it’s a tiring trip, climbing all my walls. And lengthy. Eat what you like,” he gestured to a cheese and fruit plate.

He’d tell the pharaoh to piss off if he meant to give Bakura his leftovers. There pharaoh was the only man he’d refuse for his food, of course, because Bakura was a proud man only when it came to one particular piece of shit deity. Out in the real world, where orphans sucked cock for scraps of food, ate starved rats, and were traded for beer – out there, Bakura was no stranger to crippling hunger or sucking on sandy mud for drops water.

There was a whole roast duck, half ornamental, and half carved up and sliced into bite-sized pieces. And something that looked like a very fancy date honeycake on its own plate and had seen better days. It was the only thing that looked eaten, until Bakura noticed crumbs on an empty bread plate.

He licked his thumb, pressed it against one of the crumbs, and licked it off. Rest in pieces, sweet bread.

“You fuckin’ ate all the cakes,” he complained. The brat actually _deigned_ to shrug at him, and Bakura knew at once this was a common complaint. 

Whatever.

The duck bits were delicious, caramelized in some sweet syrup, and Bakura greedily stashed away Pharaoh Murder Plan Q, which was an inspired idea to feed him sweetened snake venom.

Wait, fuck.

Bakura ate his delicious duck bits.

He might as well be really rude about it and eat the ornamental half, too, for posterity.

And the cheese.

The fig cake, too, and he was eyeing the grapes already.

Lazily, like he was an idle maid being courted, the fucking pharaoh sailed his dumb purple cape to his bed, taking the whole platter of grapes with him like a child guarding his toys.

Pushed a grape into his mouth, between the pink pucker of his lips and with a wet sound, filthy if he was trying to be filthy, except as bland as ever.

Undid his golden belt, dropped it to the floor. The collar. Earrings. A few bracelets.

Rings dropped like gold coins by his bare toes, but he threw them like they were worthless, and they were worthless, to the pharaoh, anyway.

He climbed onto his bed a great deal lighter. In his one-piece robe tied by an under string, and still in his stupid cape, still regal as fuck, as regal as that one time he wore the full Upper and Lower crown and all the appropriate regalia, including about 50 yards of cape – all for some worthless ceremony, and Bakura stood on a roof with his dick out threw handfuls of spoiled milk onto the crowd, screaming ‘fuck the pharaoh’, because that was as close as he could actually get.

Except now that he actually was fucking the pharaoh, it didn’t feel like he was insulting him by putting his dirty hands and his working body near the pharaoh’s holy person. It wasn’t about the fucking pharaoh. It was about Bakura.

Well, maybe it was also about the pharaoh a little.

It was about the way the pharaoh climbed into his bed, a little too tall for him and made it look like the furniture was in the wrong. The way he settled, back against the plush headboard and legs stretched out lazily. The way he crossed his ankles and popped another grape.

The way he was looking at Bakura like he was – what, “-a circus animal? A dancing whore?”

He pulled his shirt over his head anyway, and shrugged out of his wrap, grunted and stood there, naked, with his hands on his naked hips.

He had many nasty looks in his arsenal, and he chose one that wasn’t the good kind of nasty that he came here for.

The pharaoh took an idle note of his display of masculinity – and all of the anatomy that came with the territory – and blinked.

Once, twice.

It wasn’t an obvious sort of change. Had Bakura not spent nights writhing in his bed imagining the life draining out of this _face_ , and maybe in its final moments it wouldn’t find the whole fucking world so _tedious._ Had Bakura not hated every pretty line and every long eyelash, he’d have missed the change.

But he always had a gift for faces, and this one was slightly new. It was a pharaoh with furrowed brows, a habit for sniffling when stray hairs tickled his nose, and where there was boredom with the world there was now gentle annoyance.

Three times, four.

An eye roll. A controlled one, but not one of godly wraith, but of princely irritation.

It was subtle, and a bit breathtaking because a God had declared Bakura fit to see his human vessel.

But, mostly, he just had no fucking idea what to do with this.

 “The fuck you doin’,” he grit through his teeth, but his words came out exasperated, and the pharaoh sort of shrugged – _shrugged_ – and undid the knot on his robe. He let it fall open with as little care as when Bakura had removed his own rags.

Well, he was a beauty.

The blonde parts of his hair licked his bare shoulders and his navel dipped softly into his flesh.

Bakura climbed on top of him. What else was he to do? He slipped a knee between the king’s soft legs, put his mouth on his neck and touched his perky bits with his fingers.

“Do as you like,” the pharaoh patted his head, and Bakura felt light tugs all over his skull, as if the king was trying to comb a hand through his hair. Yeah, good fucking luck with that.

“Huh. You’re in a… mood.”

“I will have a talk with you, if you indulge me.”

Bakura paused his very important task of sucking on a collarbone. Considered it, grit his teeth and pushed himself on his hands, and tight muscles in his forearms burned pleasantly from doing pushups on a soft surface. He huffed, and shoved his face right into the pharaoh’s.

He didn’t get an intimidated or even surprised gasp out of it.

But fingers untangled from his hair, and two hands cupped his face on both sides, catching hair and ears  and everything, fingertips pressing into his temples and a steady breaths blowing puffs of wind against his nose.

“About what?” he dragged out his vowels and etched a smiling threat into his voice. “Careful, pharaoh.”

It hung in the silence for a minute, the edge of his threat, against both of their throats, in the way Bakura’s hands were right by his delicate little neck, and the way the priests across the hall would feel it and chase him down if Bakura ever snapped this little neck here, in his palace, in bed with him like this.

“It is not a careful mood, thief,” the king under him finally said and traced the pad of his thumb up the length Bakura’s ugly scar. Up his cheek and all the way to his eye. “But I won’t insult you with peace talks.”

“Hmm,” he heard himself say as he deliberated it. It was a short deliberation. He dropped his grin, muttered a lazy “fine,” and went back to nibbling on the pharaoh’s soft body.

“You remind me of leopards, with your smiles and your threats,” he heard above his head and there were hands in his hair again, working the knots. “Have you ever seen a leopard?”

“Killed two.”

He pharaoh stilled for the briefest of moments, disappointed.

“Why?”

Bakura shrugged and made his way to a nipple.

“They are lazy cats, until they’re interested in something. Like you. They care for antelopes and monkeys, and they are vicious with their food, yes, but it’s alm -ah! almost never people. Were you out in the jungle?”

Bakura bit him again, gently, but he bit him to make his point fucking crystal.

“Thief,” the pharaoh nudged him, pissing on his point and throwing it to the dogs. “Thief, tell me.”

“...if you starve them for a week in a cage, and then shove people in with them, they’ll eat people.”

Great talk. Glad they had it. Bakura scraped his teeth down the soft flesh, tasting its salt and sugar perfume against the flat of his tongue.

“Well. I suppose this makes for a better fit.”

Ugh. His kisses became the sucking and licking kind, if only to make it noisy so he can tune out the pharaoh and his dumb voice and-

“Why do you keep returning to me?”

This time, Bakura made a slow show of lifting his head and glaring, with his spit-covered lips and narrow eyes. He wasn’t grinning.

“Oh, dangerous,” the pharaoh mocked him. Probably. Maybe. Bakura couldn’t tell, but the pharaoh kept threading through his hair with idle hands, “I should be careful. Now tell me why you return every time.”

It took a moment for Bakura to decide if he wanted to pinch him or snap his neck, and his moment of indecision cost him a thigh he had trapped under him. It slipped from between his legs, then wound itself around his waist.

Bakura got thrown onto his back at once – and there was no point of fighting it so he didn’t. But if they were to wrestle like street boys in the dust, Bakura had his strength and size, and the pharaoh had some hoodoo shitshow of formal training for this sort of thing, and his being lithe, agile and fucking tiny might give him an edge if it was a playfight. But Bakura didn’t do playfights. Bakura snapped necks.  

But this wasn’t one of those, so Bakura figured what the fuck ever, let the little shit straddle him between his plush thighs and sit on Bakura’s stomach where his very interested cock was as good as pressing against that smooth ass.

Let him pin Bakura by the wrists, and hell, he wasn’t even trying. He just had his dainty little hands around Bakura’s arms, squeezing lightly and leaning close, like he had actually caught him.

If he had a blade against Bakura’s throat, then maybe. Like this? Ha.

“So now what?” he droned lazily from underneath the kingling.

“Now you tell me what I asked, thief.”

Bakura squinted at him from underneath his hair, made even worse by their tussle. Fuck. Talking made a few strands catch in his mouth.

He shrugged the pharaoh off his wrists and unpinned himself. Put one hand into his mane and threw it back, then worked on picking hairs from his tongue.

Put the other hand onto the pharaoh’s narrow hip.

“This is a fuckin’ terrible idea.”

“Hm?”

“This,” Bakura squeezed at the hip and nudged at it until the pharaoh swayed slightly. The flesh gave under his fingers, firm and bony. “I’m a man. And I’ve got a cock.”

“As am I. What we both don’t have is clothes. I rather think this was the point.”

Bakura felt his mouth stretch into a grimace. He bore his teeth and said, “I mean I’ll fuck you.”

“How?”

“I dunno, whatever you want. But you ain’t too bad to look so I’ll end up getting off on it, and then I’ll nut all over you and your fancy bed. And-”

“And?”

“And, like. Feels like blasphemy, don’t it?”

“Thief, you swore to murder me. You’ve tried. Several times. You rob sacred graves and steal idols from temples. And taking pleasure is where you draw the line?”

Bakura threw his head back and barked a short “ha!” and said, “sure, ‘taking pleasure,’ right. Fucking, pharaoh. _Fucking_.”

The damn king leaned into him, pressed his cock flush against Bakura’s belly and hissed into his face: “ _fucking_.”

He didn’t even have the decency to look smug. Just indifferent and bratty.

Bakura put his other hand on his hip and held him there.

“Gods don’t give a shit about any of that crap. What are fuckin’ Gods supposed to do with gold? It’s like sand in the desert to them. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You aren’t.”

“But stealing the shit they don’t need is not the same as pissing all over Ra. Or,” he squinted and sized up the small man, “nutting on Horus.”

“Ah.”

“’Ah’ _what_ , you dipshit,” he hissed.

“You acknowledge it. I didn’t realize. But never mind that, it’s as you said,” he traced a fingertip over Bakura’s scar again, “it’s sand in the desert.”

“What is?”

The god, bless his plush thighs, ground himself against Bakura’s lower stomach, and the curve of his ass kind of brushed against Bakura’s cock, and Bakura’s grip on his hips tightened.

Bakura’s jizz, he realized. He was talking about body fluids. Bakura bit his lip and wondered if he can get him to say the actual word, for no reason other than the hilarity of it.  

It somewhat cushioned the impact of the second thing he realized, and vicious anger that seeped into the back of his throat was made less vicious or angry by it.

“Fuck you, did you fucking just get me to answer your dumb fucking question with twenty others? Fuck you!”

“In a roundabout way, I suppose,” he reached for Bakura’s face again and got swatted way. “Are you offended? I wanted an answer and you wouldn’t give me one. You come back here for sex, but you don’t seem to be interested in taking pleasure in my body. It’s a shame. You’ve been dealt a very bad hand in life and yet you won’t even allow yourself to take what’s fair.”

Fair.

 _Fair_. Bakura saw red. Red blood, red fires, red coat of a fucking dead god, _red gold_.

“You cunt princeling,” he seethed, and the grand royal room became too small for him at once, “you… you fucking think thes…” there was spit between his teeth, “these _fuck sessions_ make up for _anything_?!”

“I d-”

Bakura threw him.

He threw him off his body with a shove, heavy-handed and swift. Pink lips parted to scream, or maybe just to gasp and find death extremely boring, and the pharaoh was falling backwards from the bed and onto the floor.

For a moment, anyway, until Bakura caught him by the throat. His fingers wrapped around it neatly, nails digging into flesh just enough to get a good grip on it and yank the fucker to face him.

He choked him. It was just for a few seconds that slipped from between his fingers when he released him, but it made his cock jerk and his mind flood with pleasure of that sweet as cream _finally_. Finally. Finally, yes, he will kill this vicious god with his bare hands. He will kill him, finally, finally.

He didn’t, of course.

He threw him, and the pharaoh rolled right off the bed with his fancy wrestling footwork, landed on his feet, pulled a knife from the fruit platter and crouched, eyes narrow and posture ready to spring at hair trigger.

“I fucking warned you, you filth!”

“In my _bed_ ,” the pharaoh hissed back at him, and his eyes had a nasty spark in them, like he was looking at a vermin, a parasite, “how _dare_ you.”

“You know why I dare, you scum, I’ll kill you some day, today’s as good as any, live in the fuckin’ moment!”

“Between my _legs_. You were between my _legs_ and you do _this_?”

“Have I offended the great fucking pharaoh? Here,” he snorted and spat in his derection, “have my fucking apologies!”

“Leave!”

Bakura sprinted through the window without his clothes.


	6. Ace (Bee Cee Dee)

1.

Bakura had no idea how one goes about apologizing.

Or if he should even bother.

The pharaoh told him to leave. It wasn’t like he told him to leave and _never come back_.

Right?

Right.

And anyway, he ran out of wine and the tavern wench kept refusing to serve him more.

Fuck this dive, anyway.

And fuck the guards, all three times as many of them now that his unofficial royal welcome got revoked.

Figuratively, not for real. They were all ugly motherfuckers with heavy hands and violent kinks, who smelled like piss and fucked shaved goats, probably.

And fuck the pharaoh.

Him Bakura would fuck for real. Except there was an ugly army of goat fuckers in his way and there was little he could do in terms of getting through it, except maybe appropriating a few goats and a barrel of olive oil for them all to fucking share. Hell, he’d even put lipstick on the goat if it would get him into the palace. 

And thus a brilliant plan was birthed.

“We arrested him trying to prostitute this goat to the gate watch.”

The pharaoh looked between Bakura and Bakura’s goat.

“You arrested no one,” the kingling told Bakura’s jailer, unamused.

“Of course, your grace.”

“She ain’t your typical small-town goat. Her name is Merrydeath,” Bakura told them before he went to sleep on the dirt floor of his prison cell. “She likes country music and long walks on the beach.”

Right.

“Fuck,” Bakura told no one in particular when he woke up with wasps in his skull in the late afternoon.

Yes, so.

“Fuck this, what the fuck you fucking fucks, fucking say something,” Bakura told the world when no one had come to cut off his head or hands or fuck him with a goat-fucking guard cock.

Which was excellent in many ways, because it took him as long to half-way dismantle the barred door of his cell, write eloquent and detailed memoirs of his life in his head, also contemplate the futility of his bucket list he would never complete because he needed a head or hands or both to complete most of the things on it.

About three quarters of it was about murdering the pharaoh and bathing his blood. The remaining one quarter… well, he just couldn’t think of anything if you put him on the spot like that. Bakura sure had _real_ hobbies and an actual life, thanks very much.  

“Yo,” he pressed his face to the bars and waved his middle finger at two guards who did a fine job of guarding an empty cell considering how they all pretended Bakura literally didn’t exist. “I’ll suck your cock if you let me out. Any takers?”

“Tell me if that ever worked,” the pharaoh droned as he literally appeared out of nowhere and sounded about as  bored with himself as Bakura was getting with his whole act. And, if he didn’t jump out of his skin and/or have a mini cerebrovascular incident, he’d tell the pharaoh all about it.

But, as it was, he settled for panting heavily and clutching at his chest.

 _‘O, be still my beating heart, for my savior is here to carry me to his sex lair and have his wicked way with my nimble body as payment for saving my useless life,’_ Bakura thought in that gracious voice he assigned himself for when he mentally thanked the pharaoh for the cum on his face that one time.

Instead, he said, “holy fuck,” and remembered the remaining quarter of his hobbies. It was murdering the pharaoh and bathing in his blood. How forgetful of him.

“That, too,” the kingling droned from beyond the jail bars.

“Uh,” Bakura caught his passionless red stare. “Is that a real fuckin’ question? You tryin’ to gauge if I’m desirable or what?”

“Only to know if my guards are loyal. You escape them so very often; one can’t help but wonder.”

Well, shit.

He was honestly kind of torn between telling him ‘everyone’ to see how many goatfuckers he could get murdered, and ‘no one’ because his escape game really was quite on point most of the time.

“Uh,” he said smartly. “So anyway. You gonna kill me or do you want your cock sucked? Or both? Cause I’d strongly advise against actually tellin’ me if it’s both. We’ll both end up dead, but hey let’s make it a surprising kind of dead, yeah?”

He reached for his majesty’s pristine white robes through the bars, so close he could smell lavender on them, but his fist closed around nothing just when he felt the silk under the very tips of his fingernails.

Bakura curled his fists and leered. Purred. Beckoned. All _, ‘come hither, it’ll be your last fuck but it’s worth it,’_ and what the hell, the blasted pharaoh actually swayed lightly before he caught his wits and resumed inspecting Bakura like an insect he trapped in a jar.

Swayed, right. Ha. Probably with the wind, considering how small of a thing this shitty God actually was. Bakura was seeing shit.

And the pharaoh was seeing the half-broken hinges on Bakura’s jail that Bakura had taken such great care to half-break. Hell, he was seeing them, alright. Seeing them so very clearly, in all their half-broken glory.

He did not seem to care about the hinges or executing Bakura, or, failing that, releasing him as trade for a good fuck.

“You could always,” Bakura made a fucking and a beheading gesture with his hands to test the waters. “You know.”

“You did not bring the Ring.”

“Mn,” Bakura purred, “is that what you’re rolling with today? Weren’t you all murder-happy the other day, the fuck happened to that?”

The pharaoh eyed the hinges again, frowned a bit and the red in his eyes flickered with rare fire.

“I admit it was silly,” he droned, but there was a spark even in his tone.

“Huh.”

“To fault a wild beast for lashing out.”

 “Right.”

There was a piece of dumb yellow hair right in the pharaoh’s fucking eye. It was right there, threading through his long lashes and tickling the fuck out of his cheek, and it sent a phantom tickle over Bakura’s own face just watching him stand there and take it because, what, it was ungodly?

“When you escape,” he sent a meaningful stare at the hinges through the veil of his stupid bangs, “and when you next slip through my guard – bring me a story.”

He knew he’d tell him the story about how he’d like to murder him and bathe in his blood. He knew it a day later when he unhinged the door and broke free. Oh, would he laugh as he told him.

 

2.

Thing was, the tripled security never let up.

Not once in the three weeks it took Bakura to get through it.

Three fucking weeks.

He managed, in the end, with enough determination and a few more goats.

And it was like seeing him up close for the first time all over again. It caught Bakura breathless.

“You came,” he sounded almost surprised to be caught half-way down a parchment with a quill in his hand, without a belt or shoes, with his makeup a little smudged and his fingertips stained in ink, in the breezy midnight air right outside his balcony where he sat unassuming between lit candles and broken pens.

“Well,” Bakura’s breath caught and his great security-breaching feat felt dumb now, in retrospect. He wasn’t expected. He wasn’t _wanted_. Well, fuck, too bad about that. But he only managed “well, yeah,” and considered that maybe slitting this man’s throat was the better option after all.

It made him feel small, this. The softness around the pharaoh’s usual edges, getting caught all barefoot. The sudden humanity of him. The smell of it. Its taste.

He measured Bakura with an even stare, but even that had gone as soft and blunt as the smudged edges of his eyeliner.

“Why did you come here?” he said after a long moment. He set his quill down. Folded his hands on his lap. Straightened his shoulders. Tried being subtle about slipping back into being a king. “You returned my jewelry a fortnight ago. By mail.”

“Yeah. With a letter.”

“With a _drawing_. Of a penis, a mounted army, and my death.”

“Oh,” the back of his head became itchy, “that was uh, like. The army is your guards.”

“My-?”

“You can tell,” Bakura supplied, “by the way they’re fucking the goats. And the rest is like. Look. I was tryin’ to say you should ease up on the security if you wanna fuck.”

The pharaoh blinked at him very slowly.

“And my jewels?”

“Ha! Hell no. _My_ jewels. Payment for services fuckin’ rendered. I sent them as a gift. So you would ease up on security. If you wanna fuck. ”

It dawned on Bakura’s miserable self just how unexpected he was. How unwanted. How three weeks without his foul company made the pharaoh placid and forgetful of their good times together (when Bakura would intermittently promise to murder him and bathe in his blood). Well, fuck, wasn’t that just downright unfortunate for his royal shortness, because Bakura had a thing for being a plain ol’ _inconvenience_.

Except it still stung, in an oddly unsettling way that didn’t fit with his new year’s resolutions to exercise more. Maybe try a new diet. Murder the pharaoh. The usual.

“Thief.”

He studied Bakura’s proud posture for a moment longer. Then, with a stare that could probably move mountains if there were any actual mountains in the desert (there were not) he glared at a nearby chair. Just sort of stared at it and willed it to come forth.

The chair stubbornly refused to come forth on the count that it was a fucking chair.

Bakura groaned, swore, and pulled it up.

“Here.”

‘Here’ was right at his side where Bakura could smell his body, his perfume. Grapes. Lavender. Birds. His slight shoulder almost brushed against Bakura’s arm. What the fuck did he want?

He pointed to the thing he was writing with the feathery part of his quill.

Bakura stared at him.

Snorted.

Laughed.

“Who the fuck are you kidding here?”

The pharaoh tapped his paper absently and propped his face with his free hand. Bored and wistful, except there was a tiny smudge of ink on his cheek now.

“You must know some to break into the tombs,” he said, but all Bakura heard was _‘you’re an ugly beggar too dumb to break into the tombs or escape my guards, but if you concentrate extra hard on sucking dick, I’m sure you can find someone to help you.’_

It wasn’t even funny.

“Look,” he groaned and rubbed at his face. “You wanna fuck or not? I’ve got shit to do, you know.”

“Mn,” the dipshit traced Bakura’s thumb with his dumb feather. “Humor me,” he muttered, low and soft, and wedged the quill between his scarred and dirty fingers.

“Tch.”

Fine.

He knew North, South. West. East. Numbers. Some gods.

“Write them for me, Thief.”

Bakura scribbled a large North, a slanted East, and then snapped the quill in half and threw it through the window.

“Fuck this,” he said, but the pharaoh was already drawing elegant swirls. The way he pinched his pen between his fingers had class to it. His wrist was still and he was picking at his letters all practiced and graceful.

He drew a leg, a bird, a tent-looking thing, and East, in large clear letters.

He handed Bakura a new quill. Snap. Throw. Another one. Snap. One more. Snap, snap, snap. He was boiling at the end of it, white-hot and sizzling in his belly, and the pharaoh cared just enough to hand him new quills while looking vaguely bored.

Fine.

He copied his leg-bird-tent-East.

Except, it was all shitty and slanted next to actual honest to god calligraphy up in there, so he scowled, tried again and again until the pharaoh took his quill and made him try a different hand.

Which made things a little easier, but his writing was just as shitty, albeit slanted in a different direction, and smudged.

Leg-bird- East-tent.

No, wait.

He filled the page in determined silence, to prove he could draw a severed leg, a shitty bird, a questionable tent and the Eye of the East as well as anyone.

He ran out of space, but he was proud of his progress, the warmth of achievement heavy against his side. He looked, and found the kingling there, leaning against him, patient and sleepy, but attentive to Bakura’s stupid writing lesson.

“Now cover it up each time you write it anew.”

There, done. 

“Well done, Thief.”

“I _guess,_ ” he muttered and inspected his work.

Leg-bird-tent-East was pretty much seared into his brain at this point, permanently and forever.

Great. Thanks.

“What’s it say?” he thought to ask when he remembered that shit was meant to read something. “The last one’s East.”

“Ra,” the pharaoh enunciated for him. “The sun God in the East,” he rose to his feet and stretched his thin arms. It was hours after midnight now, and sitting hunched over a table watching Bakura butcher his way through the alphabet had done his little body no favors.

The pharaoh didn’t point at his own writing. He picked Bakura’s best.

“Bh,” he pronounced the leg, “a” and then the tent: “hk. Ra.”

Bakura froze up.

“It reads ‘Bakura,’” the pharaoh supplied, the word nothing but an alien high note on his tongue.

Y-yeah.

He got that.

“Thief? Thief. B-”their breaths caught, “Bakura.”

Bakura lifted him clean off his feet and kissed the ink off his fucking face.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a vanity story, born out of my own personal decadence and wishful thinking.  
> it's written by me for me because there is very little content for casteshipping which makes me very thirsty.
> 
> (Please do not repost the art!)


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